


a procedure of reattachment

by tokyonightskies



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Drabble, Emotional Baggage, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Facials, Foreplay, Handcuffs, Identity Issues, Oral Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 23:31:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7865707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokyonightskies/pseuds/tokyonightskies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She struggles in her chains, blinks and watches how the white room changes into that of the cheap motel just outside of Lisbon. Her brows furrow together. Handcuffed to the headboard of the queen-sized bed, the sheets are warm under her naked back and her hair is spread out over the pillow; and he—Reaper, Gabriel—kneels over her, the heat radiating off his brutalized skin, his cock hard and jutted out, his neck angled so he looks down at her.</p>
<p>“Suck.” He orders gruffly.</p>
<p>(500+ words drabble)</p>
            </blockquote>





	a procedure of reattachment

**Author's Note:**

> how to resolve budding identity issues; a walk-through.

.

Widowmaker blinks slowly, hypersensitive to how the mattress dips next to her head when he shifts closer to her body, to her face, but her mind is playing tricks on her, distorting the paneling of the ceiling until there’s a row of fluorescent tubes against concrete.

And she drifts out of the here and now, drifts to the white room with the door bolted shut in the left corner and the mirrors lined up onto the right wall. She’s sitting on the concrete floor— on her knees and her kneecaps are bruised a brownish purple—and handcuffed to a metal railing that’s nailed to the wall. Here, her answers are always wrong even if they’re right.

They broke her in the first forty hours; the man in his dark suit slaps her across her face every time she answers his question, no matter what she says. _Who are you?_

_Je suis Amélie Lacroix._

It’s wrong.

Her cheeks sting an ugly red from his coarse palm, from the knuckles of his backhand. Tears roll down her face.

They’re starving her, humiliating her; their gazes a deadweight on her shoulders when she starts to _plead._

It’s so, _so_ wrong.

She struggles in her chains, blinks and watches how the white room changes into that of the cheap motel just outside of Lisbon. Her brows furrow together. Handcuffed to the headboard of the queen-sized bed, the sheets are warm under her naked back and her hair is spread out over the pillow; and he—Reaper, _Gabriel_ —kneels over her, the heat radiating off his brutalized skin, his cock hard and jutted out, his neck angled so he looks down at her.

“Suck.” He orders gruffly.

Her jaw slack at his demand, _unhinged_. She turns her head and opens her mouth wide as he takes his cock in hand and brushes his cockhead against her bottom lip. Their eyes meet for an instant and then she slides her mouth down his cock, taking in more and more until it nudges the back of her throat and breath eludes her. Her nostrils flare.

Gabriel brings his scarred, right hand down to her forehead, chastises, “Easy.”

She relaxes her gag reflex, slides the flat of her tongue down his shaft and hollows her cheeks; she sucks him deep and hard, wants to bury the tip of her nose into his pubes as she holds him down deep in her mouth.

Her lips are tender, wet when she lets go; her teeth and the cavern of her mouth exposed to his scrutiny and the paneling of the ceiling above him.

There’s no more urgency in her body anymore, her muscles no longer taut, as he jerks his cock off above her and comes over her face with thick ropes of spunk.

“Good girl.” He praises as he drags his palm down her clavicle, her sternum, down to the flat planes of her belly.

Widowmaker heaves a sigh, burrows the back of her head deeper into the pillow as his cum dries on her face, regards him with half-hooded eyes: the lacerations on his broad chest, the pale tissue of old gunshot wounds, the scars dragging onwards over his face, the skin that’s missing here and there.

He’s going to get her out of the cuffs in a few, he tells her in a rough voice. His blunt, thick fingers curve over her cunt and she _keens_ lowly. Her hips buck up instinctively.

And all thoughts of the white room, the man in the dark suit and Talon have disappeared when he starts to fuck her open with two fingers.

.


End file.
